#AmericanWriters
733 The Spirit is the Conscious Ear. We actually Hear When We inspect—that’s audible— That is admitted—Here—
223 I Came to buy a smile—today— But just a single smile— The smallest one upon your face Will suit me just as well—
557 She hideth Her the last— And is the first, to rise— Her Night doth hardly recompense The Closing of Her eyes—
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
Lightly stepped a yellow star To its lofty place - Loosed the Moon her silver hat From her lustral Face - All of Evening softly lit
He preached upon ‘Breadth’ till i… The Broad are too broad to define And of ‘Truth’ until it proclaime… The Truth never flaunted a Sign— Simplicity fled from his counterfe…
104 Where I have lost, I softer tread… I sow sweet flower from garden bed… I pause above that vanished head And mourn.
849 The good Will of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate
588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—
957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—
550 I cross till I am weary A Mountain—in my mind— More Mountains—then a Sea— More Seas—And then
421 A Charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld— The Lady dare not lift her Veil For fear it be dispelled—
Because I could not stop for Deat… He kindly stopped for me– The Carriage held but just Oursel… And Immortality. We slowly drove– He knew no haste
Because I could not stop for Deat… He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselv… And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
Said Death to Passion ‘Give of thine an Acre unto me.’ Said Passion, through contracting… ‘A Thousand Times Thee Nay.’ Bore Death from Passion